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Random thoughts with sporadically profound meaning

Category Archives: language

I was introduced to the phrase “show, don’t tell” by a woman who runs a small publishing company in Arkansas. After she read the first three chapters of my novel, she gave me some extremely helpful advice. I have since edited those first chapters and am moving forward with much more knowledge about writing.

What she said to me made complete sense. In the first chapter, one of my lines ended with “the impending nightfall felt menacing”. It did not occur to me to show the reader how the night was achieving that menacing quality rather than just tell them. I was guilty of some rookie writing mistakes and rather than telling me my writing needed work, she showed me how to make it better.

This same phrase introduced itself to another realm of my existence, proving three words can pack a powerful punch. When new people join your work team, there are bound to be some adjustments, not only for the new employee but for the long-term team members as well. And when that new employee steps into a managerial role, some toes are going to be stepped on and some noses will be out of joint.

Once the employees aired their grievances, it was agreed that the new employee would show the team how his new ideas could improve the existing way of doing things instead of just telling them how he wanted things done. By showing them and not simply telling them, not only will he have his new ideas implemented but everyone will get involved and the team will become stronger.

‘There is something wonderful in feeling the presence of the writer within you, of something wilful that seems to have a plan’ … George Saunders

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Until I began writing my blog, I had never actually called myself a writer. I dabbled in poetry as a child and thrived in it as a teen, I began to write short stories in my early twenties and thirties but calling myself a writer felt like a lie. A few of my poems were published many years ago but that moderate success never brought with it the title of ‘writer’.

Blogging opened up a narrow passage for me that eventually widened into an avenue. The more I blogged, the more I found my voice. And the more I found my voice, the more confident I felt about my words. I had to master that voice before I could ever be convinced that calling myself a writer was even close to being accurate.

Now my writing avenue has blossomed into a two-lane highway. I am drawn to that macadam and travel the road with more confidence than I ever have. The voice that I hear in the back of my head telling me I can write IS wilful and does seem to have a plan. The book that I had envisioned years ago, the one that sat lifeless in the obscured corners of my brain, now seems to be writing itself and using me as a vehicle to record its story and the nuances of its characters.

Feeling that writer within me come to life and feast on words is a feeling I can only liken to euphoria. There is something deeply intoxicating about being able to lose yourself for hours and create four thousand words of text that seem exciting and suspenseful. I can only hope that when I finish writing the book someone else will share my passion for the story and help me promote myself from the title of writer to published author.

When I feel strongly about something, I can be a bit overwhelming in my pursuit and subsequent follow-up. While my intentions are completely honorable, my execution can be somewhat irritating. But at the heart of my bothersome behavior is my desire to see the benefit of my persistence far outweigh the burden of my pestering.

I really do want the best for people. And sometimes I feel like the droning sound of my voice, saying the same thing over and over again, will eventually have its desired effect. But I can hear myself. I can hear the warming of my vocal chords as they prepare to drown the recipient in their ambient sound waves. And although the compulsion is unrelenting, if I am lucky, sometimes I can catch myself before the melodic tone of my incessant chatter reaches maximum annoyance.

On the bad days, I do see my nagging as a challenge – a moment to rise above the urge to deliver unwarranted advice. But on the good days, I see my nagging as a strength – a moment to reflect on the genuine feeling of emotion behind the message I am trying to convey. Regardless of which day it really is, I am compelled to react because the apprehension I feel for a situation is directed at a person who is very close to my heart.

Although the word nagging is derived from a Scandinavian word meaning “to gnaw”, I like to think of my foray into personal harassment as more of a nibble. And if you find yourself on the opposite end of one of my lectures, please know it comes from a place of love and from nowhere else.

If you are a blogger, or an aspiring novelist, you may have seen the acronym NaNoWriMo, which is an abbreviated version of National Novel Writing Month. The eleventh calendar month has been designated as the month when writers challenge themselves to write 50,000 words, or more, in a time span of 30 days.

I thought this year I would board that speeding locomotive of creativity but, as the train neared the station, I stepped back and watched the silver bullet speed past my stop and continue on its journey without me.

As the caboose rattled down the tracks and the last of the smoke had cleared from the air, I realized I don’t want to put so much pressure on myself that I scare my characters away. I want them to tell their story at their pace. I have developed a relationship with these unique personalities over the last couple of years and I don’t want to be the bully in the school yard making these other kids make decisions based on any peer pressure I put on them. I will push their swings as high as they want to go but let them slow down when they want to stop pumping their legs. This is their journey and I am only here to tell it as they tell it to me.

I envy those who can focus so intently for thirty days, and perhaps if I were starting a new project I would be more eager to dive in and lose myself in the process. But, for now, I have chosen to create my own acronym – NaNoWriWin…… National Novel Writing Winter.

My writing train will still stay on track, but a track that doesn’t have such a condensed schedule. It will meander along its path, at a rate of speed that is conducive to its creativity and not just its deadline. And I can only hope that by slowing down the velocity of my train, that my silver bullet with travel through beautiful, and sometimes scary, landscapes over the next few months. I’m anticipating some bumps along the way, and perhaps a few derailments, but it is the journey that I am looking forward to and not just the moment I finally reach my destination.

I love words. I devour them like plants absorb the sun for nourishment. I feed on their ability to convey so many emotions, to give us countless ways to describe the essence of who we are and to capture all the wonderful nuances in life. Words are simple in their nature but intricate in their distinction.

But sometimes words fail. There are so many things we want to say, so many emotions we want to share and words just don’t do justice to the feelings we are trying to express. There have been moments that I have had so many words hovering on the precipice of being spoken aloud but those words seem to pale in comparison to the message I really want to send.

It is not often that words are not my ally. It is an uncomfortable moment when the things I love seem to leave me when I most need them. Where once was a plethora of idioms, a bottomless chasm of silence resides. My inability to use words to their potential precludes me from saying the precise thing I want to say.

But those words are sometimes delivered even though they are unspoken. Those muted messages find their way through the silence and are easily understood as they soundlessly fall on the ears intended to hear them.

As as writer, I rely on words to accurately convey how I am feeling. I use those words to express myself. But sometimes I forget that the words I don’t say, the words that are felt and not heard, are just as loud as the ones I speak.

It is with deep regret and great sadness that I announce the passing of the hamster who used to power the wheel of thoughts in my head. Jack died peacefully on his wheel on Sunday, June 12th at 3:15 pm in his 36th year.

Jack loved all things related to language and words. He excelled at creating just the right nuance in a sentence so it sounded interesting without being too wordy. He spent many hours pouring over his thesaurus to make a phrase engaging, yet comprehensible.

Jack began gnawing on his writing chops at a young age. He dabbled in poetry and short stories and had recently begun his foray into writing a novel. His passion for words led him to blogging and he relished the forum that allowed him complete freedom for his creative compulsion. He was a fanatic about grammatical correctness, loved to build a story from beginning to end and thrilled in plotting twists and turns that a reader may not have anticipated.

Jack leaves behind an empty wheel, a collection of Dean Koontz novels and a battered Underwood typewriter on which he had hoped to use to type his way into becoming a prolific Canadian author.

Expressions of sympathy can be sent to the comments section of this blog. R.I.P. Jack – we had a good thing going for a while.

I have recently spent many hours contemplating the amount of time I have endured over the course of my life encapsulated within the concrete vault of hospital walls, entombed in the casing of dry-walled office partitions and shrouded by the protection of the walls of my home. And although I would never described the feeling as being trapped, there is always a moment or two of feeling somewhat ensnared by the constraints of my life. The only thing that gave me true escape from those walls was writing.

There are no confines and no limitations when it comes to imagination. There are no barriers that trap thoughts in one place. Writing gives the freedom to be outside of my reality and float above my world, if only for a while.

Writing allows me to purvey thoughts and feelings that beg to be unleashed and creates a world of whimsical words. Some of those words are uplifting and some are deeply scarred with truth. Regardless of how the words spill onto the page, the combination of those letters help to break down the barricades of real life and create a portal into inspiration and thought. The hard outer shell of my existence crumbles and that gravel paves the road for my creative journey.

No one avenue will ever be the same. Each artery of language will have its own unique characteristics and each of us is drawn through a different vein of creativity. Writing, for me, is freedom and once the words come, all of the walls in my reality seem to fade away.